Just Like Heaven
by Windy Darlington
Summary: Come on, come on, collide; let's see what fire feels like, I bet it's just like heaven. She's the light to temper his darkness, and he's the spark of madness to her quiet patience. They're star crossed and misaligned, fated never to touch. A series of Lokaine one-shots across multiple universes and settings.
1. Chapter 1

**.**

**THE WRONG LANGUAGE**

**.**

**.**

_She'd never seen him drunk before._

Raine had only meant for it to be a few celebratory glasses of something special.

A little treat to success for their first victory against HYDRA-infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D. But somehow, between swapping amusing tales of wild adventures that went disastrously wrong, and reminiscing of recent events, the cups emptied and refilled, and emptied, and refilled. (It was only after she stopped drinking and her full glass overflowed, that she realized Loki had begun using his magic to replenish the liquor in their glasses.)

They got far down into their cups, as one would say.

At least, Loki had.

Raine had meant to stop, to call it a night because they both needed to sleep. Not for any special reason, just because the longer they drank the harder it would be to face the morning. But the liquor was a soft buzz, and Loki had warmed to his storytelling with the liberal flow of it, falling into a relaxed prose of elegance. She found herself reluctant to put the comfortable, easy atmosphere to bed. The friendliness of it all. The sense of casual comradeship.

But Loki never slowed in his drinking as he went on with his stories; delving down into tales from boyhood, when the world was wide and magic not so faded and hard to find. She didn't know if it was the enthusiasm for his storytelling or the liquor that put the warm fire in his eyes, turning them a soft green flecked through with gold, but she found herself struggling to pay it no attention. The same for the smile he displayed, as if seeing something he greatly appreciated. It sent a sensation flying over her that had nothing to do with liquor.

He was drunk, she told herself.

_She'd never seen him drunk before._

That was all it was; nothing more. His expression meant nothing.

_She'd never seen him drunk before,_ she whispered to her heart, trying to put an end to its erratic pounding.

This was nothing, nothing at all.

They were friends. Albeit a strange sort of friendship; built on magic and dependency and stubborn determination. But it was only friendship. She glanced at him again and her heart jerked in her chest, not to be hushed when she saw him smile, all walls down, no longer inhibited. He told her of Muspelheim, of an adventure that had ended with only mild burns when it should have ended in a lake of fire.

They fell into a silence full of mirth and calmness and warmth; an afterglow of the liquor.

Raine's gaze flitted from the city skyline outside the apartment balcony, and glanced at him. His stillness and silence had lapsed so long that she began to wonder if he'd fallen asleep.

But he wasn't asleep. He smiled, drowsy and boyish and thoroughly drunk, when he recognized that she looked at him.

She couldn't help grinning. This whole situation was hilariously amusing and simply. . . odd. To see the 'Terror of Manhattan' slouched beside her on a brown leather couch as if he were just another ordinary human, instead of a being on track with mortal deities.

Even as he looked, dressed so he could better blend with the world around him (so unlike the world he'd known in his youth), he stood out. Black jeans and a green v-neck t-shirt, a graphic jacket hanging off his shoulders that made him look rangy and thin, his hair fresh-washed so that it fell down his shoulders in glossy pitch-dark ribbons, couldn't detract from the Otherness that hovered about every aspect of his person. With the aid of the delectable fugue of the liquor, her mind ran wild on images that his form invoked.

An immortal goth escaped from some punk-rock side-shop in the mall.

A street musician without a street or music to expound upon.

A graffiti artist lacking both medium and canvas to express his rebellion against the boundaries in which the world would have him lie.

She smelled the magic on him; like books and ice and pine forests and musky ashes just after the fire is put out. It was soothing, and reminded her of everything they'd done together; the good and the painful and the wicked. How much he'd taught her about her own talents; how much more he'd taught her to control them, wield them, and accept them even though it felt at times like a bitter flame licking her blood that she wanted to struggle against.

Loki tilted his head, regarding her._ "Láta ek jafnan talt ér hvé vænn thinn auga ru?_" He asked, still smiling with drunken laziness.

The foreign, strange utterance surprised her. She grinned in apology. "I don't know what you're saying."

He sat up slowly, setting his glass down beside the bottle on the coffee table, a leaned toward her. As if he hadn't heard, he continued in the same indecipherable language: _"Hvé thinn auga ljóma líkr stiarna um sá efstr stikill ór nótt. Thú ert svo falleg ad thú færir sál mína ad sársauka fyrir thig._" He shifted, sitting so he braced one hand on the arm of the sofa, the other resting along the back of it, pinning her between his body and the cushions. But strangely, she didn't feel trapped; the softness in his expression was too nonthreatening. Her heart beat furiously at their closeness. He bent his head above hers. So close that if she leaned forward, their noses would touch.

_"Minn Elska."_

Raine shifted.

His eyes peered into hers, relentless with their intensity. The light in them flickered, illumined by something she couldn't exactly determine, and didn't know if she wanted to understand. But it made her think about all the feelings and fantasies she'd hoped not to revel in tonight. Those ones that made her ache to be close to him, for his touch against her skin, his hands on her body, his mouth claiming hers.

But despite herself, they came unbidden as their gazes met, and held, and remained unbroken. Despite how fiercely she fought to chain them down, to tie them back.

How easy it would be, to lean forward, touch their lips together; feather-light, just a brush.

Just to see if he tasted of magic as much as he smelled of it.

She'd tried not to spoil the moment. She'd really _tried_. But it had been ruined anyway; in part by Loki's own inexplicable behavior. He pressed closer, and their noses did touch then, sending a heady shiver down her spine against her self-determination.

_"Minn Elska, fridr fljód," _he murmured, eyes searching her face as if for some sort of answer.

Bitterness at her body's reaction to the low whisper, and the look in his eyes, and her own forbidden thoughts, made her words harsh and loud. She hadn't meant for them to be, but they spun off her tongue and she couldn't take them back.

"I have no _idea_ what you're saying. It's not funny; actually, it feels sort of rude. I wish you'd stop doing it."

Loki hesitated then, a shadow hazing his eyes. With a motion far more fluid and graceful than she'd anticipated for someone who had to be mind-blowingly drunk (far more drunk than any human being could possibly be), he retreated back to his side of the couch. His eyes clouded to green-grey as he sat there, glancing at her.

The absence of his presence was acute, and she hated that she minded the lack of it. She tried to shove it out of her mind, but the scent of smoldering pine lingered around her from his recent nearness and made it impossible.

Loki dropped his head back and sighed. Tossing his head, he looked across at her with a more familiar, mildly aggravated expression on his face. "Wretched, infuriating woman. I believe. . . I do love you."

Her heartbeat shuddered inside her chest, pressing painfully against her ribs like a bird desperate to break loose of its cage. Exhaling in shock, she stared back at him.

Loki smiled, studying her features as she scrutinized his face. Uncertainty swirled through her middle, confused by the blunt and unexpected admission. Her brain reached a reasonable conclusion for the behavior that would be satisfying, even when it wouldn't be later.

_She'd never seen him drunk before._

"You're drunk. You don't know what you're saying. That, or you're teasing me." She offered a return smile, though hesitant. She craved having back the comfortable moment they'd had before all of this.

He sighed. "Perhaps, _minn drottning_." He shrugged carelessly as he spoke, before flinging on arm out along the back of the couch. "But I shall love you still in the morning. I will not speak of it, however, if that is how you wish it be." He dropped his head, eyes drifting closed.

Raine studied his face, watching as his breathing evened out and he began to drift toward sleep.

But her traitor heart just _had_ to know.

"Do you really?"

Her voice was gentle and soft in the quiet.

Loki shifted, but didn't stir.

Raine smiled sadly. She looked at him, studying his relaxed features. He'd probably forget all of this come morning. Or, at the very least, think he'd dreamt it all. Because he couldn't have meant a word of it. She turned away, hugging herself and suddenly feeling empty.

"I mean it, truly."

The growl of his voice broke the silence that had enveloped the living room, giving contradiction to her thoughts.

Raine whirled to look back at him.

Loki still lay sprawled across the cushions, but his eyes were open again, and he looked alert, for all his drowsy appearance.

And then, without warning, he lifted an entreating hand toward her. She glanced down at his open palm, then back to his face.

"Come here. Please."

His voice was low, and her heart clamored to answer it. Hesitant, she lay her hand in his and shifted on the couch to move nearer him.

As she came within a foot of him, he pulled her without warning. Drawing her down against him with unexpected gentleness, he curled his arm around her waist and settled his hand easily over her hip as if he did it often. Her shirt hitched up, lying against him as she was, and his fingertips slowly began to draw nonsense circles and runes she didn't know the meaning of across her skin.

Against her better judgment, but reveling in this fantasy-brought-to-life, Raine sighed in contentment. Cautiously, she slipped her left hand up against his steady heartbeat. Unlike hers, it was even, and slow. When Loki remained still, she slowly lay her head down on his chest, just beside her hand. She wanted to savor this moment; especially if tomorrow they retreated back into their familiar safety of odd friendship. Shifting, she draped her arm across his waist, fitting herself better against him.

"Mhmm, _betri_," he whispered, his breath stirring strands of her silver hair. _"Ég elska thig."_

"You're saying things in the wrong language again," she murmured against his shirt, smiling.

"I love you," he returned, his voice a drowsy rasp. He bowed his head, nuzzling her hair before resting his nose against the side of her face, breathing in her scent of war and ruin and triumph.

"Do you mean it?" she breathed, curling her fingers into his shirt.

"By my life, I do," he replied, smiling with his eyes closed, "my queen."

* * *

**A/N:**

_**This is a series of one-shots and such-what inspired by songs or prompts; or bits and scenes from fanfics that I discarded because the didn't fit the plot (but I didn't want to get rid of them completely). ****The title comes from the song ****Cassiopeia**** by Sara Bareilles (which I just ADORE). **_

_**I'm not a linguist or to be considered any sort of expert in Old Norse/Scandinavian languages. I borrowed from a lot of sources online (including, unfortunately, Google Translate. I apologize if anything is inaccurate or incorrect).**_

**Translations of what Loki says in this chapter:**

**"Láta ek jafnan talt ér hvé vænn þinn auga ru?"**  
[have I ever told you how beautiful you look?]

**"Hvé þinn auga ljóma líkr stiarna um sá efstr stikill ór nótt. Þú ert svo falleg að þú færir sál mína að sársauka fyrir þig."**  
[How your eyes shine like stars at the highest point of the night. You are so beautiful that my soul aches to touch your soul.]

**"Minn elska."  
**[my love]

**"Minn drottning."  
**[my queen]

**"Ég elska þig."  
**[I love you]

_**~ Windy**_


	2. Chapter 2

**BEAUTIFUL**

**.**

**.**

He made a low sound in his throat, turning his head back to look at her, the kick she had dealt him smarting.

He reached up, touching a fingertip to the trickle of blood from the parchment-thin slice through his skin just across his cheekbone.

She breathed heavily, her stance guarded, waiting for him to move. Strands of hair feathered about her beautiful face. She lifted her chin a hairsbreadth, lips parting only slight. The light overhead gave her a golden-white halo. A war-wearied Valkyrie.

**_Beautiful_.**

The cut smarted. Rage filled him. He lunged with a snarl, teeth bared like a wild creature.

They grappled.

He grasped his staff, whirled away and spun to face her.

A _blast_ of power rippled from the wicked-gleaming weapon.

She ducked beneath it.

He lashed out for her braid, trying to grab something, anything, of her to gain control.

She countered, throwing punches and kicks, using a knife she'd slid from her jackboot.

The balance of power tipped back and forth and then again. An acrobat on a tightrope. A dance along a knife edge. Feet bleeding, blood singing, heart racing.

She gained, he lost.

Incensed fury ravaged him, rising a mad symphony in his soul.

And then the scales shattered, and he flung her back from him with a ruthless kick. She struck the wall. In three strides he towered above where she lay in a tragic heap on the floor. She sank into the throes of futility, attempting to rise, fight him, lash out; denying her imminent and undeniable defeat.

He grabbed her by her braid and her neck as she moved to stand, exhausted from her warfare; making such a pitiful attempt at fighting back now that she was beaten, though she refused to yield.

**_Beautiful._**

The dagger few threw the air, hardly glinting in the corner of his sight, wielded by a dexterous hand. But not dexterous enough. Easily, he caught her wrist, twisted viciously, slammed it back to the wall with his fingers as he dragged her up from the ground. She bit out a cry of pain and anger. He smiled, panting from the tussle, staring down at her.

She stared back, grey eyes full of wrath and fury. A fallen goddess not to be destroyed by defeat.

**_Beautiful._**

His fingertips stroked the back of her hand captured in his, pinned to the wall. She struggled against him, like a silver kestrel trapped in a hunter's net. Deadly, _beautiful,_ tamable. Her wrist in his hold trembled as he brushed his fingers across her hand once more. She flinched, as if trying to shy away from his nearness. He stepped closer still, bending his head down toward hers. Their eyes became almost level if he did not have the greater height.

"Are you prepared to kneel before me?"

Her rage sparked anew and once more she fought against him, her free hand coming up to strike.

Deftly, without flinching, he reached out and caught it fast before she could find a mark, slamming it against the wall beside her right hand.

His eyes glinted with mad delight, and he spoke a different sort of threat. "Are you prepared to be _unmade?"_

The belligerence melted to fear in her grey, stubborn eyes. Oh, she knew what this meant, then. He smiled, wickedly amused. Only the threat of untold agonies seemed to bring fear to these people. What a strangely wondrous thing, to be without terror until terror heaped upon you to make itself widely known.

"No, no, don't— _Kill me_," she ground out at once, hard as gold. But fragile as glass. Her body trembled against his, betraying her. "Just kill me, I'd rather _die—"_

He saw the dread in her eyes, the soundless horror at prospects her mind dredged in delirium for her to contemplate chillingly. He tilted his head, a curious predator before it struck, the demon to her goddess of light and glory, studying her, his gaze sliding down from meeting hers to examine her face. The light sugar-dusting of freckles barely to be noticed along the bridge of her nose. The delicate lavender circles of sleeplessness beneath her eyes. The slight up-turn of her nose; how she set her mouth in her fury and her fear. Her parted lips a soft, yielding pink—the color of blown springtide roses.

**_Beautiful._**

His thumb lifted, gently pressed to the middle of her captured palm and gliding downward to the base, just above her wrist. Her pulse beat a sharp staccato rhythm beneath his touch. He took both her hands in one, her hands so much smaller than his own. He bent his head, pressing in closer to her, focus fallen to her mouth.

She railed at him still.

He paused, drew his hand to the side of her face. She flinched back from it, but he touched her because she could not escape—a glistening wild mare caught fast in his feter. He lowered his head, silencing her begging and calls for death with his mouth on hers. The spark of heat in him fanned into a fire, and his fingers against her face plunged into the hair behind her ear, weaving tightly, pulling it loose of its braided bind.

She tasted of exhaustion, and strength, and victory, and her mouth was soft against his. She felt like a forgotten embrace he had once known, and smelled of an abandoned longing reawakened.

She trembled against him, struggling fitfully. He drew back, lifting his eyes.

Hers were brilliant liquid silver with tears she did not cry; a fallen goddess with broken wings who still remembered how it felt to fly.

**_Beautiful._**

"I. . . it's not. . . _you're_ not—I want—" She trembled again, her hands spasming in his hold, her fingers curling and straightening out.

"Hush," he murmured gently, his voice a low purr. He bent his head to kiss her once again, a futile attempt to slake the insatiable hunger that raged high inside his soul. Again she fought against him, twisting her hands, throwing back her head; but she needn't fight it. She shouldn't run. Shadows were meant to chase, and in the darkness they only grew.

"Shh, shh." He caressed the side of her face with his hand, stroking against the corner of her mouth with a side of his forefinger, the tip of his thumb lightly pressing to the edge of her chin, his mouth above hers, his breath against her skin, cold instead of warm. "It is _better_ this way. . ." He slanted his mouth over hers, leaning in to her and drawing her to him all at once.

Her fingers curled, brushed against his hold, ghost-light. He released her shaking hands, and they fell, but he grasped them up again, resting the right at his neck but clinging to the left, pressing it against his chest, splaying her delicate fingers across the metal and leather of his armor, barely feeling the heat of her from such an insubstantial touch.

He wanted a throne and a realm and fulfillment of the siren song of revenge whispering sweetly in his thoughts. Yet more than those, his soul demanded in heady desperation, he wanted her. And despite her war, her wrath, her reluctance, he had looked into her eyes, and saw that in opposition of all she believed and trusted, she wanted him, too.

**_Beautiful._**

* * *

**A/N:**

**Prompted by '_The hero trembled in the villain's hold. "Shh," they said gently, pressing their mouth to the hero's, "it's better this way."' _Everything else in this, aka other poetic/lyrical lines, were all written by me. I don't own Marvel's version of Loki or AnnMarie Pavese's Raine.**

**WH**


	3. Chapter 3

**APPRECIATING** **DISTRACTIONS**

**.**

**.**

He did it periodically. She and her brother worked with his brother. Their business boomed and sometimes they needed a hand. They remodeled houses; "turned them over," as they said.

And sometimes _he_ needed a break from the endless drudgery of his office; so, it formed a perfect balance.

It was exerting physical labor, and took his mind off of his work; off of travel times and court dates; from club meetings and counselings that always seemed to feel like the pinnacle of pyrrhic victories.

They were keeping the house to rent, his brother had told him. So they decided to furnish it. But another turnover in Arlington required his brother and her brother to be out of town.

Would he consider moving in furniture, screwing in bulbs, checking the A/C, hanging pictures and mirrors, and doing other menial tasks?

Of course, it would be a lovely distraction.

He _appreciated_ distractions.

.

.

He definitely appreciated them, he thought passionately, watching her walk barefoot in her cutoff faded blue-jeans across the white living room carpet, a box of decorative knick-knacks in her arms. Her long legs lightly tanned and sinfully smooth.

Oh, and if he hadn't, he was learning how to be more appreciative, he thought, watching her crouch down to paint a spot of trim as they worked in the closed-in sun porch, him mounting wall-hangings and her finishing the painting.

Her braid slid down her back, then flopping over her shoulder heavily to lie against her delicate collarbones and the side of her neck.

Her arm stretched above her as she worked on a short stool, going over the moulding around the ceiling; bits and pieces touch-ups, the finer details. His gaze flickered from ensuring the hanging hung straight, to her; how she stood on tip-toe, the tendons in the back of her legs tense, her face in profile and her mouth set in concentration.

.

.

He appreciated her assistance.

She came up beside him, leaning her body ever-so-slight against his arm to nudge a frame into place in the front hall. It was a watercolor landscape, but he didn't care; it could have been a Picasso and he wouldn't have blinked twice. He tried not to think of how good it felt to feel her against him, even if it were only for an instant.

.

.

But he could _not_ appreciate her nagging.

"No, not there."

"No, five inches higher." A pause. "Or maybe five inches lower?"

"No, that goes in the second bedroom."

"No, not that lamp."

"No, not those curtains."

"Can you hang that straighter? It's crooked on the left side."

"Maybe don't put that up?"

"I think you should just go back to moving the couch now, I'm good here."

"No, put the couch back, I think the table from the hall would look better behind it."

.

.

It had begun to grate on his patience and his benevolence. But he'd agreed to help her ready the house and he never reneged on his word. It was a standard of value he prized in himself if there was not much about himself that he prized.

"All right, yeah looks like that would be nails here, just don't pound them in like last time; no more dents in the wall," she decreed, after what felt like a hellfire ternity in which she debated and pondered and reconsidered and doubted and redecided where she specifically wished he hang the last mirror.

"I'll pound you against the wall," he muttered under his breath as he positioned a nail, exasperation getting the better of him at last.

He froze when she took a sharp inhale signaling that his words had not gone unheard, rising from the box she crouched over. Clearly she put a different meaning behind words spoken in the haste of irritation.

She turned to look at him. He suddenly felt immeasurably idiotic. He held out his hand, taking a step back in awkward discomfort.

"That did not come out as I intended. I _swear."_

Or had it? he wondered, gazing at her and trying not to let his eyes wander.

She boosted a hand on her hip, thrust out as she bent her leg, regarding him in the examining, critical way universal to all woman and yet uniquely their own. A thin stripe of bare skin showed between her shorts and the hem of her white shirt. He tried not to look at it, but found himself coming back the longer she stared, one silver brow raised in deliberation. That strip of exposed skin was creamy-white, smooth, paler than her arms and her throat and her thighs.

She nodded and he managed to breathe again.

"No harm done." She grinned, turning back to the box.

But now all he wanted was to see the contrast of light skin against dark, trace his fingers against the line where they met, taste her with his tongue and wonder if the essence of her matched the fragrance of orange blossoms and summer and honeysuckle that she carried with her wherever she went. He wanted to be _appreciative_, he thought, growling low in his throat as he whirled back to the wall, banging the nail into place so roughly it went clear into the wall.

A clear imprint of the hammer's head indented the plaster.

"Damn."

"What?" She turned to look, coming over.

Why did she feel the need to stand so close? He exhaled, shifting closer to her than he needed.

She put her finger on the nail, tapped for a moment in thought and then shrugged. "I mean, it's not like this isn't the first time. I guess we can ignore it. But pry it out; I don't want the wall full of nails." She flashed a brilliant smile at him. "I give you permission to give it another go, before I take that hammer from you."

He glanced at her. Oh, he decided passionately, he would give it another go; but not with the nails. She turned to leave. He put his arms up on either side so she couldn't walk away, palms braced against the eggshell-colored wall. She looked up at him.

"What are you doing, we—"

"I am appreciating the distractions," he rasped.

She exhaled, high-pitched, staring at him with those wide grey-violet eyes that inebriated him without even having to taste a drop of wine.

She threw her arms around his neck without expectation, but he reacted.

Pulling her up off the ground.

Kissing her madly, wildly, desperate.

Open-mouthed, hungry for that taste of her.

Her fingers pulled his hair as she tried to angle for a better position, leaning against him, her legs wrapped around his waist, her torso pressed seamlessly against his so that he could feel every breath, every shudder of pleasure. He slid his hands beneath the hem of her t-shirt, drawing it up, exposing her skin, gliding his hands across it. She trembled and he felt as if he shook too; heady with how much she filled every sense he had.

She drew her mouth off his, head going back against the wall. He followed, leaving soft kisses against her jaw, bites against her neck that made her utter noises to only encourage his pursuals.

Somehow he managed to shed her shirt without having to draw her off the wall. Somehow she'd managed to undo the buttons of his while still keeping a hand curled tight in his hair.

She moaned, fingernails digging into his shoulder, the back of his neck. He left another open-mouth kiss on the soft skin at the base of her throat, trailing farther down and then back up again to her mouth when she tugged on his hair. She bucked against him, cried his name. Laughed, and then moaned again.

He chuckled against her skin, grinning madly, kissing her mouth, tasting his name on her tongue and panting her own in response. He asked if she wanted to finish hanging mirrors. She mumbled something about hanging her and only pressed her mouth against his harder, her hand at the back of his head.

.

.

They lay on the floor among the pictures and the mirror and the plastic painting tarps, nails strewn all across the carpet. Her hair fanned around her in a silver halo, tangled out of its loosely-twisted braid. His black hair hung all in his face in unruly curls, finger-waved and mangled by her fists when she'd clenched it tightly in their unexpected throe of passion.

Their heavy breathing filled the quiet din around them.

"I never thought I could fall asleep on plastic sheeting." She laughed, shifting where she lay. The tarp rustled beneath her as she moved, sticking to her damp back.

"Hmm, nor I."

He found he rather liked this house. Perhaps it would do as a future place to rent when he tired of the cramped apartment with the view of the brick building next to him. Except of course he'd have to take down some of these millions of blasted pictures and mirrors. He wanted to be sure to have a chance to repeat this experience; he wanted to be _appreciative_ of each different wall.

He traced his fingers down her side, against her rib cage, leaning over to press a kiss to her throat. She inhaled softly, but sharp, reaching out to curl her fingers back into his hair, offering a sort of distracted guide to the path she wished him to travel across her skin. He braced himself with one palm flat against the floor, leaning crosswise over her.

A truck rumbled. Then the sound of an engine cutting off.

A door opened distantly.

A voice called out from some location far away yet appallingly nearby.

"Sis, you guys done yet? I just thought I'd drop by since I had to come up anyway and get the welder from the garage; forgot I'd left it."

He jerked up from her body, staring at her. Her eyes were wide, cheeks flushing a sensual shade of scarlet. He wanted to kiss her again, bend her body against his until they whispered each others names in concert.

"Get dressed," he hissed instead, flying for his shirt and throwing it on. She sprang up, the tarp rustling, grabbing for her clothing. Hastily he buttoned pearl-white buttons down his shirtfront. She zipped her shorts, tugged down her t-shirt, going to work on her hair.

At the same instant as her brother walked through the doorway, she bent down over her box and he finished snatching up the scattered nails. Coming to his feet, breathing heavily— more from his tussle with her than the mad scramble after stray nails, he nodded at Eysa.

"We're about done," he said, hoping his voice wasn't as low and growling as he thought it sounded.

"Just, uh, hanging a mirror."

"About to finishing banging in the last nail," he agreed quickly.

"Banging is right." She sounded wry, and he snuck a sidelong glance at her.

She eyed him back, her gaze fluttering the length of him. His eyes flickered with wicked pleasure, and he blatantly stared at her in return.

Eysa nodded and glanced over them, coming away from inspecting the look of the room. "It'll be great when it's done. Nice job, guys; and I appreciate the help, Loki."

He waved him off. "It's, uh, nothing, really." He glanced at her again. "I enjoyed it immensely."

"I _hope so."_

He tried not to look at her too long, because if he did he felt that he would go down on her again and her brother would not take well to that. Instead he looked at Eysa, nodding and pretending to be listening as the other man explained what they hoped would be the first of a trend in finding easy flip-houses to turn into rent properties.

"All right, well, I'm out of here, then; you'll come for dinner tonight, yeah? As thanks." Eysa looked at him with a nod.

He froze.

Dinner in the lion's den.

With her in the kitchen.

Doing what he could only guess.

Distracting him and no doubt making it an immense challenge to keep himself limited to his chair and polite conversation that did not include ravishing her on the countertop.

He drummed his fingers against his thigh, considering the consequences and the benefits.

"Yes, of course. I'll be there." He flashed a bright grin, hating himself that all he wanted at the moment was for Eysa to get out.

Nodding, saying something to his sister, Eysa left.

He looked over at her.

She stared at him with wide, inviting eyes.

"We have decorating to finish."

"You could do that thing with your tongue aga— Oh, right."

She colored. He straightened attentively.

"Or . . . yes, I could do that."

"And we finish decorating later?"

She stepped forward, reaching out and grasping the front of his shirt, working at the buttons already.

"Mhmm, oh. . . yes. . . yes, cer. . . sure," he managed, her mouth on his hungrily, his arms twining quickly around her waist. He slumped back against the wall and slid down, keeping her in his lap as she kissed him and he began unwinding her braid.

Oh, _yes,_ he most certainly appreciated every single distraction. And he would be sure that he could obtain _many_ more.


	4. Chapter 4

.

**SMELL THE CINNAMON**

**.**

**.**

_She came in, _bringing with her the outdoor aroma of autumn on a brisk wind heralding the coming cold, though the temperature had just begun to turn that pleasant happy medium between searing heat and unbearable chill. The scent that came in blended with the smells of chocolate, peppermint, sugar, and marzipan, and it made him look up from the till to see to the new customer.

His lightly-curled fingers stilled from counting the pennies and dimes, his thumbs and forefingers statue-still above the cash drawer.

She was not extremely remarkable, in that she looked like many of his female patrons: a thick green scarf wrapped in relaxed loops about her throat, wearing an oatmeal-colored sweater flecked lightly with black, slightly too large–the ribbed cuffs drooping over her wrists in casual elegance that comes from an old but comfortable sweater–and dark-washed jeans clinging to her legs, vanishing into fawn-colored boots.

But her hair, braided in a loose French style, was what caught his attention and held it longer than a fleeting glance— What had caused him to take a second look at her appearance.

It was white.

Not the grey-white-black that comes from repetitive dyes, but a true white, as if it were entirely natural. Even her eyebrows were white, he noticed when she turned, looking at a box of assorted chocolates and scones. The color of her hair made a striking definition with her eyelashes, which were long and sooty-black, framing warm grey eyes.

Which he only noticed because she looked up and smiled at him, reminding him he was staring instead of greeting her.

"Welcome to The Shop," he announced hurriedly, trying his best to cover his hawkish staring as he bent his head and returned to counting out the last of the dimes. Thirty-five minutes until closing time; thank the gods he ran his own bakery and could afford to keep open a little later than usual. Surreptitiously he watched the woman as she moved through the tables and shelves packed with chocolates and cookies and breads and every single confectionery and baked good known to man— And some that were unknown, at least to Americans.

She moved from a table stacked tastefully with chocolate boxes ranging from dark to white, to look into the refrigerated section, eyeing the cheesecakes and the boxes of sample slices from each flavor with a barely-contained smile of excitement. Opening the sliding glass door she moved to take a box of raspberry squares.

He tried to say nothing, but then couldn't continue to bite his tongue as she hesitated, holding the box while looking at another, hovering over that delicate, and familiar, precipice of indecision.

"If you want something that isn't in one of those boxes, customers reserve the right to ask for customized boxing and wrapping," he offered helpfully, leaning over the black, white-veined countertop to tap a sign taped to the glass display case beneath the cash register. She turned on her heel to look at him. The long rope of her braid slid off her shoulder to hang down her back, swaying gradually until it hung still. Her smile was open and kind, and also confused.

"I can . . . customize a box? When there's already assorted boxes offered?"

He smiled crookedly with an air of bashfulness, and nodded. "Yes, you most certainly may; that's what makes my shop so very special," he teased.

She laughed softly and smiled back, taking the box in both hands and holding it in front of her. For a moment she looked at it thoughtfully, and then lifted her head. "Well, that just made my evening all the more challenging— I was coming in here because I've decided to be horrid and give in to temptation. It smells lovely whenever I walk by, so I decided I had to know if it _tastes_ as good as it _smells_," she admitted, shrugging, and glancing around the large room.

"Well," he grinned as he began, "I can help you, perhaps. After all, I did make _it all_."

"That's very true!" She nodded, turning profile to look back at the fridge full of cheesecakes. "Would you help me?" she looked at him again.

"Of course!" he affirmed. Closing the register he moved around the counter, habitually reaching up to rake his fingers through his longish raven hair. Pity he'd forgotten the tie that morning, he thought abstractedly as he worked his way around the tables and across the rugs to the woman's side. But regret served no purpose now, and he smiled over at the woman before focusing on his desserts.

"What's your favorite?"

"Um… Caramel pecan?"

"You sound unsure." He chuckled as he crouched down for one of the boxes folded beneath the fridge, setting it up deftly with long fingers familiar with the occupation after many years of experience.

"It's… well," she tilted her head from left to right, as if weighing something with her memory, "it's been awhile since I've indulged in cheesecake."

"A cardinal sin! I'm undone," he said dramatically, putting one hand to his chest, then turning back and pulling a pair of plastic gloves from a container beside the stack of cake boxes. The woman laughed, a blush coming to her cheeks as she pressed her lips together, momentarily looking at the toes of her boots.

"I know, I'm awful."

"Actually, no. Cheesecake tends to run expensively; which is why I make mine. . ." He put a finger to his lips thoughtfully, then lowered it, sliding his hands into the gloves. "Let's say that mine, while not of lesser quality, are priced cheap." He nodded in satisfaction with his words. "Yes, cheap so that people can afford a taste of Valhalla on their tongues without guiltily watching a bit of their phone bill or car payment change hands in exchange for a treat."

"That's thoughtful." She crouched down beside him, sliding her purse from her shoulder and setting it against a rack of breads, looking at the offerings of cheesecake before her.

"It's human—I can recall then I was a boy lacking the funds to buy something that smelled _wonderful_. I decided I would do my best to prevent other people from suffering similarly" He slid back the fridge door, the scent of freezer frost nipping the air, and pointed at a raspberry-swirl cheesecake, cut into sample cubes. "This one is very good, I think you would like it. It was also in that box you have," he added, nodding to the box as she set it back into the fridge while he removed two of the raspberry samples.

"Okay, that's perfect." She lifted her eyes, taking in the multitude of cakes, "Only about a million choices left to go," and laughed in cheerful dismay. "I'm never going to be able to decide."

"Bosh!" He retorted, lifting some caramel-pecan into the box. "The choices are limited to thirty-four varieties."

"See, that's impossible!" she shook her head, then pointed at a blueberry square. "Ooh, that one looks delicious."

"I promise it is," he confirmed, reaching for two squares. "And would you like some of this?" He pointed to a tray labeled brownie marble cheesecake.

"That looks fabulous, I'll have to have some!" she laughed, and it faded to a sigh. "You just keep guiding my choices, otherwise we'll be here until midnight."

He glanced over at her, smiled crookedly again, and nodded. "Of course."

For awhile he would point and describe and she would either agree or politely turn it down, sometimes with regret in her eyes and sometimes with withheld dislike, such as when they came to the Reese's peanut butter cheesecake—which he could understand as that wasn't his particular favorite either; however, enough patrons enjoyed the taste so he continued to bake it.

For a little while a quiet lapsed as he settled some apple crisp squares into the box, attempting to keep them separate from the caramel dripping off one square.

"I know people probably ask you a lot, but—"

He interrupted; it was the only time he'd done it, and would be the last time. "My accent is particularly pleasant, where am I from? Yes, I wondered if you might ask that." He smiled, shifting the box forward on the floor and then reached for some chocolate squares. "I was born in Iceland, and then went to university in England, and then came here to the U.S. to learn more of the culinary arts, and. . ." he shrugged, "to. . . travel. It seemed to me unbalanced to be all about Europe but never have come to the States, thus I am here." It was a good lie, and better than the truth, which was no one's business.

"It's very. . . elegant; almost unexpected compared to, um. . ." She looked around the store, but he grinned, knowing what she really meant.

"How I look?" He tilted his head, looking at her sidelong. A very noticeable blush clung to her cheeks, and she nodded, and glanced at him and then looked back at the fridge.

"Yeah, kind of. . ."

"Don't worry, I'm not slighted by your thoughts; people are allowed to have them. Otherwise it would be very, very dull to go about living." He shrugged, and the small braid starting just behind his ear dragged over his shoulder. He enjoyed people's attempts at abstaining from facially expressing their thoughts upon looking at him up close when they came to the counter to purchase their desserts.

But then his appearance was at decided odds with the atmosphere: raven-black hair long enough to make him look the part of a Goth, the necklaces, the rings on his fingers, the black tattoos of Norse and Icelandic on his forearms in contrast with his pale skin— Disguising the scars earned in his teenage years from one too many battles with his addictions and low opinions of himself. One did not expect someone like him to own a bakery, dressed in his black jeans, a plaid around his waist, wearing either a dark t-shirt or a rumpled Henley as the weather dictated. It gave him mad delight to startle people out of their typical imagery of what a baker should look like.

Carefully, after removing the gloves and throwing them into a small bin, he folded down the lid of the sample box. He looked up at her as he handed it over. "My name's Loki—yes, _exactly_ like the god from Norse mythology." He offered his hand, and she took it, relief in her eyes that he'd changed the subject.

She took his hand in a friendly shake. "I'm Raine."

Loki smiled. "Lovely; it's very fitting."

She lightly bit her bottom lip, looking down at the box now in her hands. "Thank you." She looked up at him. "I can't say for certain whether or not Loki is fitting."

"Oh, trust me, entirely _too_ _well_!" He laughed, and stood, then offering a hand to help her up.

"Should I be scared?" she teased, flipping her braid back over her shoulder and shifting her hand on the straps of her purse.

"Only if you attempt to leave without paying for that box." Loki raised both dark eyebrows, glancing at the object in question with mock severity as he spoke.

Raine grinned. "For a moment I considered running with the spoils, but. . . then again I want to be able to come back if this is as heavenly as you promise."

"Sinfully so," he declared.

She smiled and then blushed slightly, turning to survey the light outside the shop; noticing it was nearly nightfall. "Oh, goodness, it's late! I'm so sorry; I think I need to get this rung up or else I'll be loitering all night."

"I wouldn't mind such beautiful company _all night,_" Loki flirted boldly, and then he winked at her; grinning mischievously before moving toward the counter and the register.

For a moment, Raine stood looking after him in disbelief, attempting to process what she'd heard and if she'd heard it spoken as she thought she'd heard it. Not too shocked to keep stock-still, Raine moved up to the counter, setting the box down on the cool black and white surface, her finger tracing a vein of white marble before lifting up to reach for her purse and root out her wallet as he rang up the sample collection. He set a smaller box on top of the cheesecake samples, taking it off a revolving stand on his left without even looking or slowing down.

"Ahh, no," Raine reached out, lifting the box and setting it a few inches away from the stand it had come from.

"Ahh, yes," Loki countered, picking up up and putting it back.

"I have to pay for it!" she rebutted faintly, looking at the label. She faltered, reading it. An amused smile came to Loki's mouth and vanished quickly when he looked away from the register.

"I know you do—but these are ninety cents. Not twelve dollars like they could've been." He lifted his left hand off the register keyboard and motioned with a flick of his fingers to a revolving stand four times the size of the little one on the counter. A cream-colored tag written in a flowing hand marked the boxes—identical in size as the ones alongside the register—as eleven dollars and ninety-eight cents.

"Why so cheap?" Raine narrowed her eyes faintly, fingertips lingering on the edge of the box, just covering the label claiming them to be a variety batch of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, and cinnamon sugar snickerdoodles.

Loki shrugged, typing in the additional item's price. "I made them this morning and they've not been especially received. I decided throwing them into purchases as hardly anything would prevent me from having to throw them into the rubbish bins at week's end."

He slid the boxes into a bag emblazoned with The Shop's name and address in scrawling font, looking up to see Raine studying him with slightly narrowed eyes.

"What?"

"You're lying—nicely, but still. What's the real reason you're practically giving them away?" She put up her cash and change, paying exact. Loki typed it in and the cash drawer rang out with its familiar ding.

"I thought you would like them and rarely am I incorrect when suggesting something to a customer. I considered making them free but then realized that might not appeal to your better nature—you were considerate of my time the moment you walked in here, and would feel uncomfortable with receiving something without paying for it," he found himself declaring in a slight rush, counting the money into the drawer and avoiding looking at her. "Your receipt," he said at last, knowing he couldn't ignore that final transaction.

"Thank you." Raine took it and folded it three times neatly before slipping it into her wallet and returning that to her purse. She took the handles of the bag, lifting it from the counter. Then, she paused, and looked at him. A few strands of white hair feathered across her forehead, and she reached up to tuck them back behind her ear.

"At least you told the truth—I expected some more lies from someone named after the god of them." She smiled faintly. Loki smiled back self-consciously and looked down, fingers sliding back and forth across the edge of the counter.

"As long as you know I wasn't trying to manipulate you into purchasing something ridiculously over-priced I suppose we're in good standing." He looked up, "It would have been better if I'd led with my thoughts—but usually I'm not so rebuffed by my female patrons." Loki paused, head tilted slightly. A wry smile came to his lips and he lifted his gaze from the counter to look at her, "Or, in a rare instance, the male ones."

Raine chuckled, tilting her head against her shoulder, her chin dipping into her scarf. She bit her bottom lip and then said, "Well, you come across something that changes your opinion on something every day, I guess." She took a step away from the counter, moving toward the door. "If I enjoy these I'll be back—so you can have another chance at explaining yourself instead of just interjecting your opinion; even when it _is_ one hundred percent accurate." She smiled, tapping the bag with two fingers so it rustled. "I actually really love oatmeal chocolate chip cookies."

Loki smiled crookedly again. "I thought that was so."

"Yeah. . . you were right." She moved toward the door, and as she put her hand out to open it, looked over her shoulder. "I'm sure I'll be dropping by again; there's so much more in here to taste."

Loki chuckled and motioned for her to go. "Do come back, then—if only for the sweets—However, I certainly cannot deny that I enjoy your company," he called while the bell jangled, signaling her departure. As Raine walked passed the large picture windows, she waved, and for a moment Loki lifted his hand in return farewell.

The sound of the wind picking up outside, sending leaves chattering along the sidewalk beneath his awnings, made Loki lift his head from studying the veined countertop. He moved to lock the door, turning around the 'open' sign to read 'closed'. He stood looking out, watching some bare-branched crape-myrtles waving their limbs in the breeze. The idea of Raine coming back made him smile fondly. He hoped she might.

Sighing contentedly, Loki turned and made his way to a narrow stairway at the back of the shop which lead to his apartment above. It had been a good business day. Turning off the lights, Loki moved up the stairs. Faintly he smelled the lingering scent of cinnamon that always permeated his shop at this time of the season, and inhaled deeply. Autumn was a marvelous time of year.


	5. Chapter 5

.

**FOR SPACE REASONS**

**.**

**.**

"No."

Loki stared with momentary incredulity before giving over to disgusted impatience. Raine glanced between him and the sleazy desk manager. Dropping her bag she eased closer on the lobby side of the desk. Loki looked as if he were fixing to blast a hole through the guy with his eyes or something less discreet. Like shoving the brass cowboy figurine through his chest. She wouldn't put it above him; abrupt brutality in a fit of rage described his m.o.

"What do you mean, '_no_'?" Loki replied, his voice sounding like fracturing ice. He set his hand on the edge of the counter, leaning toward the manager.

The guy puffed a cloud of stale cigarette smoke into the gap between them and raised both eyebrows. "You can have one room, and one bed, and that's it; that's all we got—we're not the Hilton-Astoria. Take it or leave it, mister."

Loki set his teeth, jaw locking. With a low rattle in his throat that sounded like the snarl he uttered before breaking someone's neck, Loki set the credit card down on the desktop with a definitive snap of plastic on marble.

"We'll take it. As we are short of better accommodations, this hovel will do."

Warily, Raine eyed the manager. But the twenty-something who looked as if he snorted coke for dinner only slid the card along the counter, picked it up and ran it through the pin and chip machine beside his computer. Then he set it back down, sliding it across the desktop in the general direction of Loki's fingers.

Loki caught the rectangle of plastic under his palm before it could go flying off the edge, glaring daggers at the manager. "Good night," he bit out in a clipped tone, presenting a feral baring of his teeth in mimicry of a smile.

"Enjoy your stay," the manager drawled, taking another drag on his cigarette before flopping down into his chair. He spun around and collected a key-card from a slot on the wall behind him, throwing it underhand through the air. "I hope the hovel is bearable." He kept his gaze leveled on Loki, and Loki mirrored him, catching the key-card without looking away.

"Thank you," Raine cut in hastily, reaching out to snatch the key-card from Loki's fingers. "I'm sure it'll be just what we need." She flashed a smile and nudged Loki toward the stairs.

"I can't believe you said that."

Loki glanced over at her as they mounted the stairs. "It _is_ a wretched hovel; I wanted to go to the Hilton-Anatole, but _no_, we must abide in this flea-ridden bed of decay and vomit." He rolled his eyes and began taking two steps to her one.

"Huh!" Raine frowned after him incredulously, mouth open. Upon realizing that he wasn't going to stand there and have it out with her, she ran after him.

"You can't say that!"

He crested the top of the stairs, striding down the hall.

"Loki, you really can't say stuff like that; if that kid had been any more awake—or sober—he'd have called security or cops or something and had us kicked out!" She reached out and grabbed his arm, but he shrugged her off. "Are you even listening?"

Loki put his hand to a door and the lock clicked. She turned from staring at him to the door as he pushed it inward. "You were saying?" Loki gestured forward to the interior.

Raine flashed him a disapproving glance, but leaned forward to peer inside.

"Ew." She recoiled, nose wrinkling.

The bed wasn't _terrible_, but there were questionable spots on the duvet cover. Stains littered the tan-and-green carpeting; gone dull with age. The furnishings looked as if they'd been popular in 1972 and had gone that long without a thorough cleaning. A TV set with wire hangers for antennae sat on a low plastic table, duct tape wrapped tightly around one yellowish-white leg, and the only visible outlet on the left wall by the bathroom door had black streaks around it.

"You were saying?" Loki lifted his left eyebrow and slanted his gaze to her.

Raine huffed, crossing her arms, reluctant to admit he was right. She tapped the key-card on her forearm, then glancing from it to the door Loki had opened with his magic and sighed. "Fine, whatever, it's a hovel." She edged around him into the room, hefting her bag over one shoulder. She headed toward the bathroom then spun on her heel, walking backward. "But it's better than sleeping in the truck."

Loki scoffed and rolled his eyes, taking years off his face and giving him the look of a petulant teenager. "Yes, it's better than the truck."

"Exactly!" Giving him a bright, teasing smile she ducked into the bathroom and shut the door.

.

.

.

"We'll have to share it, that's all we can do. For space reasons. Or, um, lack of it."

Raine stood beside Loki. Together they were staring at the bed, their faces expressing mild discomfort. Neither of them had thought this through, and now faced with it reluctance had set in. Loki slanted his gaze to her without moving his head.

She looked refreshed from her shower and smelled like wisteria, despite complaining about the hotel's cheap bath soap. As she looked at the bed, her fingers fiddled with the ends of her hair. Loki edged away from her, trying to ignore the soft scent of clean woman she exuded.

"I dislike the idea of sharing."

Raine looked over at him, a smile twisting her features. "Why?" He opened his mouth and she held up her hand. "No, wait, let me guess." She raised her eyebrows, a grin on her face. "You have a thing about sharing with people you consider inferior to you. I should've known."

He closed his mouth, setting his jaw and looking away from her. That was not even near why he disliked this proposal, but she could have her opinions; they were sillier than his.

"Enough madness, I am too weary to quarrel." He waved her off, moving to the bed and climbing in. Throwing back the bedclothes he grabbed a pillow and turned his back to her.

"Okay, I'm all right with that." Raine shrugged, grinning to herself. That had been easier than what she'd had in mind to happen. She'd expected some sort of argument about the whole thing. She flicked the light off beside the bed and jumped in. Curling under the sheets in delight, she hugged her pillow to her chest. A bed was so much better than the awful truck. Not to mention Loki didn't sit whining about how uncomfortable he felt and how much he hated their sleeping arrangements.

Smiling, eyes closed, she drifted off.

.

.

.

He shifted, pressing his nose against the hollow between her shoulder and her throat, one arm curled around her body. The scent of wisteria and woman was divinely intoxicating; he wanted to never wake completely, because then he'd have to acknowledge what he'd done. She would slap him, perhaps ban him to the truck for the rest of the fortnight; or restrain him further with her infuriating fetters.

Reluctantly, feeling her shift beneath him, Loki opened his eyes and drew away. Her eyes were still closed, dark lashes thick against her soft skin; her silver hair fell around her face in tangled, sleep-mussed waves. He relaxed back into the pillows, smiling as he studied her.

When she slept he found her more appealing—or was that only because he could indulge in his pathetic fantasies? He tried not to contemplate it at length, only growing embarrassed with his thoughts if he did. Idly, he reached out his free hand to stroke feather-light against her hair, feeling the silky softness of it against his skin.

She stretched, then, unexpected, he found himself looking into her eyes—more violet than grey from sleep. He grew motionless, she blinked slowly. Time seemed to have become suspended as they regarded one another. He waited for her to pull away from him and slap him for his familiarity. It would be the least she could do for what he'd let himself do. She moved. His lips parted to defend himself.

She slid closer, and kissed him.

Loki froze, the act taking him by surprise. Then he melted, leaning into her. His brow furrowed as he closed his eyes, reaching up to put his hand against the back of her head. His fingers sank through her soft hair. Every sense had caught on _fire_. Sleep ebbed from him in haste, like a wave retreating from the shoreline. He sighed as they parted, her fingers curled into the front of his tunic.

She looked at him, chin resting on her hand above his heart. He gazed back. He couldn't lie to himself in that moment; denying he found her both desirable and beautiful would be to deny his craving for vengeance. Her expression was yet softened from sleep, and her lips were rose-petal pink from the kiss, and he wanted only to kiss her again and marvel how magic danced on their tongues like the static in the air during a lightening storm. It intoxicated him, enticed him.

Loki's eyes flitted across her face; then his lashes fluttered closed as he leaned up toward her and brought their mouths to meet again. She leaned down into the embrace as he yearned upward—his arm wrapped securely about her waist to keep her against him as her fingers plunged into his tangled curls. For a finite eternity they kissed, languorous and soft in the morning light that filtered through the thin curtain over the dirty window-blinds.

After a lapse of several minutes they parted, and she blinked slowly, a drowsy smile slipping across her features—soft in the pale yellow light. "Why did we do that?"

Her voice was gentle as a breath of evening wind, and dusky; colored an octave lower after their unexpected morning activity. It took all of his strength of will not to steal still more kisses from her soft mouth and lay her on her back and make fervent love to her, avoiding what she had asked entirely. But he didn't.

"For space reasons," he murmured, a lazy smile cutting across his mouth. "Sleeping is far more simpler, and comfortable."

"No…" her thumb grazed against his mouth, and her eyes followed the motion of it with absent thought before she looked into his again. "I meant… why did we kiss?"

The longing to make love to her and adore her with thorough care returned with a new intensity, but he kept it constrained. "I believe it is because we've just woken up, and life is less complicated when one is in that gentle void between dreaming and awake."

She smiled after his words; he thought he would die from the strange sensation the beatific expression inspired in his soul. Instead he reached up to stroke his fingers down the side of her face, fingertips brushing against her hairline.

"I like that, it's lovely."

"It is incomparable to your beauty in this moment—you are divine."

A blush rose from her neck to her cheeks becomingly, but instead of shying away from the compliment or attempting to negate it, she pressed in again and kissed him. Sighing, Loki leaned back into the pillows, curling his second arm about her, his hand at the back of her head. Clearly, he would not be banned to the truck. Clearly, he would have ample opportunity to repeat this activity due to limited spatial resources. Perhaps he could be grateful for this wretched hovel of an establishment after all.

* * *

**A/N: Yes this is gratuitous garbage fluff. Because I can't write anything good. I'm sorry for the decided LACK of quality content this is. It's really trash. But you still get it, so enjoy.**

**WH**


	6. Chapter 6

.

**GONE FOREVER**

.

.

Loki sighed, staring out the window at the buildings opposite.

How dull, and vapid, and empty.

Sighing again, he walked across the carpet to the living room, which he crossed to the dining area and from thence to the kitchen.

For a moment he regarded the utensils in a stainless steel canister, then the stove, the fridge, the oven. The quiet in the apartment reminded him of those apocalypse films Aurora was fond of watching on movie night.

A thought set alight, and his eyes brightened.

Wandering from the kitchen Loki went into Raine's study – he wrinkled his nose at the term, for it was little more than a glorified closet with a meager window overlooking a brick wall and an alleyway full of refuse – and picked up the 'house phone' as Raine referred to the oblong device that could not leave the premises. Unlike the smooth, flat rectangular device she carried almost everywhere.

Listlessly he dialed a number as familiar to him as a spell he'd mastered in his youth, and put the phone to his ear.

The dial tone sounded, and Loki rapped his fingers against the top of Raine's computer screen with quiet impatience.

The dial tone continued to ring out.

Then, at last, a click ensued from the phone. He waited.

"_Hi, this is Raine Fording! Sorry I can't come to the phone right now, but I'll get back to you if you leave your name and number!"_

Loki lowered the phone and raised a brow as he eyed it. With a collected calmness he did not truly feel (but had to maintain because he would be berated if he broke a fifth phone) Loki gently pressed the 'end call' button with the tip of his thumb and sighed yet again.

He drifted out of Raine's study, phone still in hand.

His left hand glanced over the exposed keys of the piano in one corner of the apartment. The clear, discordant sound echoed for a moment in the vast emptiness of the room.

This is what vaults sounded like. Tombs. Where the rap of footfalls and ring of laughter resounded eerily and forlorn, forever marred by the emptiness and the lack of life.

Loki draped himself across the couch with sulky elegance, flinging his right arm above his head. His left hand dragged against the rug beneath the couch, and for a short time he swept his fingertips back and forth across it in distraction. Raine's hair was far softer.

His fingers itched to stroke her hair instead of this synthetic pelt beneath them now. Jaw locking, teeth clenched, Loki pulled himself into a mockery of an upright position, half-slouched against the cushions. He lightly tossed the home phone onto the arm-chair across from where he sat, watching it arc through the air with a dead gaze.

Silence reigned.

Loki sighed for the fourth time, eyes straying to the clock on the wall. It had felt an eternity since she'd gone. A gross, miserable, wretched, tormenting eternity.

The clock ticked softly in the long silence spread out about him.

Nothing stirred but his own breathing.

Raine brought life to this lifeless, colorless existence. But now she was gone.

He lunged for the home phone, leaping over the low table between the furniture and diving against the arm-chair. The over-stuffed living room piece skid backward on the floor with a soft squeak. Raking his hair from his face roughly, he repeated the exercise in futility he had just performed.

To the same results.

What had Agent Romanoff spoken in jest to Steven Rogers? Repetition was the expression of utter madness? A truer statement could not be found in the World Tree, Loki decided, habitually redialing Raine's number a third and fourth time and listening to her voice.

Loki slid off the stuffed chair and lay sprawled across the carpet on his back, studying the ceiling with its strange texturing. It almost (in an abstract way that no one else seemed to see) resembled the cosmos. Perhaps he would paint it thusly at a later point in time.

There was nothing, anywhere, anymore, in the universe that could hold his attention.

He was adrift, emotionless, without capability for feeling or sentiment.

The world had gone cold without warning or announcement. It stung and it ached with emptiness. It was so strange.

He had nothing to do, no means with which to occupy himself. There was no form of magic he could exert that would bring Raine back as he wished.

He lifted the phone and stared at it in his hand. Tilting his head to the side, he began searching through the contacts list with idle lethargy. A familiar name atop a number he did not know by heart greeted him after a time. His eyes lit up.

Agent Ballern. Aurora.

He pressed the call button and lay the phone to his ear.

"_This is Rory."_

"Aurora! How delightful; do you know I do believe I lament hearing your charming voice?"

"_Loki. Hi."_

She did not sound overly enthused, but he lay no blame on her shoulders. He too did not feel the desire to exert himself vocally at the present.

"Yes, hello."

"_How did you get the phone, and why did you call me; I'm kinda busy at the moment, Loki, so please tell me this is important—and don't tell me that you're calling from another dimension only to see if it worked."_

Loki sighed tragically as she spoke. It had been only one time, and he had not _called_ anyone, Raine had called it 'Skype' and he had _Skyped_ Rory. The Spider Child and Thor had been absolutely delighted that one could still see and hear remarkably well from the Tesser dimension. It had good broadband or something, the young Midgardian had informed him and Thor.

"No, I am in our apartment. I grow despondent with Raine's absence. She has gone, unfortunately."

"_You can just call her, you know."_

"I do, I am not a fool." Loki scoffed, rolling over onto his stomach. He traced a vine in the rug with his fingertip, leaning his head against the arm-chair. "I have dialed her number over a handful of times. She has not responded." Grunting, he got to his feet, moving down the hallway, pausing now and again to glance at pictures on the wall. Finally he returned to their bedroom. "So, in my loneliness I thought to call upon you. Do be flattered, Lady Aurora." He grinned. How she despised it when he called her Lady Aurora.

"_Just call me Rory; I've been over this, you're allowed to call me Rory."_

"Yes, I remember." Loki stretched out on his back across the middle of the bed in the master suite. Again, looking up at the ceiling. Here the ceiling was smooth, he noticed. However, the architect of the room had failed to center the fan, he realized, frowning at it. Lifting his hand he performed a bit of magic, evening out the problem to satisfaction.

"_Okay, either you're gonna tell me you two are having winged snow leopards or you're gonna stop breathing like a stalker on the other end of the line."_

Loki frowned. "I contacted _you_ for the conversation and entertainment. And, forgive me, but I do not know what snow leopards are."

Aurora huffed on the other end of the line. Loki sighed to mirror it. Sometimes friends could be so difficult. It was tragic, but true.

"_Well, what sort of cats live in Jotunheim?"_

Loki regarded the question briefly. Then, "By 'cat' you in truth mean lion, yes?"

"_Yeah, sure."_

"Then there is a creature called the frost lion— At least, such is how I can vaguely translate it to this crude tongue Midgard largely speaks."

"_Nice, well, unless you guys are having winged frost lions I need to go; I have a report I need to write and a debriefing I need to attend."_

"But then it will be silent as the vault of the dead and I weary with loneliness and lack of company. Report of your battles another day."

"_Um, I'm not entirely sure how Asgardian royalty works but I'm not a princess, so, no, I can't put it off. Maybe try calling Raine again?"_

"I have already informed you that she is out and does not reply."

"I was in the shower, Loki."

Loki started at the voice from across the room. "Farewell, Lady Rory." Aurora protested on her end of the line, something to do with his presence being an irritation, but he ignored it, standing and throwing the phone down. He walked over to Raine. "You were gone for eternity, _Elska_. I missed you." Happily he wrapped his arms around her, resting his head against hers.

Raine shook her head, laughing quietly. "I was only gone for forty-five minutes. That's not eternity, you ridiculous trickster."

"But it that is how it _seemed_. And do not discredit how it seemed!" He pulled back and looked at her with intense earnest, the gold imperfections standing out in the green of his eyes. "Momentarily I felt as if I were experiencing the sensation of you being gone forever." His arms around her tightened as he embraced her again. "It was unbearable and insipid. I do not wish to think often in such a manner."

Raine smiled to herself, hugging him back affectionately. "Okay, that does sound pretty lonely. But you really shouldn't call people for no reason—next time read a book or practice that new incantation that's been giving you trouble."

"Or. . . join you?" Loki's voice lowered suggestively.

Raine leaned away and smacked his arm. "No! . . . But I'll think about it." Disentangling herself gently, she walked down the hallway toward the living room. He trailed behind her.

"That means yes, does it not? I have been told on good authority that such words from a woman mean yes."

"Who told you that; Stark?"

"No. . . Lady Brunhilde."

" . . . That _also_ makes sense." Shaking her head, Raine walked into the kitchen, smiling as Loki continued to insist that she meant yes.


	7. Chapter 7

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_**A/N: I recommend listening to Baby by Clean Bandit; it fits the whole thing and is what I wrote it to (and what prompted this entire piece, haha.)**_

* * *

**SOMEONE ELSE'S**

.

.

_Standing here in an empty room__  
__I saw you there and my blood ran cold__  
__Take me back to that long September__  
__Don't know how I ever let you go_

_Find me, in another place and time__  
__If only, if only you were mine__  
__But I'm already someone else's baby__  
__Guess I had my last chance__  
__And now this is our last dance__  
__You fell through the cracks in my hands__  
__Hard to say it's over__  
__But I'm already someone else's_

— _Baby – Clean Bandit ft. MARINA —_

_._

_._

The people filtered out of the Stark banquet, lights powering off with groans as the music began down the hall, a dim and distant roar. Everyone moved toward it with silver laughter and swishing skirts and whispering trouser cuffs. She peered through the departing crowd, looking again for what she thought she'd seen.

It was.

It was him.

Loki stared at her from across the empty room. His eyes were green and vivid at this distance, but she knew that if she stood up near him, close enough to kiss, the imperfections of gold and ocher would shine out. As they always had. As they always would. He looked unchanged, and yet forever altered; traces of The Land of the Dead lingered on him ever since Thor had brought him out of Hel, barely escaping with their lives. Like her, he dressed black-tie; but there was a luxurious elegance to his tux that her gown lacked. Always the rogue prince, even in Midgardian costume. His long hair was drawn away from his face with viking braids and silver clasps, hinting at the ethereal otherness that always clung to him, even in mortal clothes. A shiver unwound across her skin, beginning at her fingertips and ending with a trace of her spine.

He moved, a statue of the past coming to life again.

She froze, cold plunging through her veins, watching as he walked across the tile toward her.

"Would you care to dance, Raine?"

The same words he'd said to her the first night they met. She smiled, and felt as if a thousand knives gouged at her soul. "To what music?"

"Our own, _Elska_." He offered his hand.

She took his hand, snagging her bracelet on the button of his coat-sleeve. His hand settled at her hip, and they swayed aimlessly, the beat of the disco music like an echo of a heartbeat. "Oh, Loki," she whispered, unable to look up at him, her forehead brushing against his lapel as they moved slowly through the tables in lazy circles.

_Please, ask me—_

"How tragic," he whispered back instead, a century later.

She looked up at him then. His eyes searched hers, and he offered an unexpected smile—tragedy written in every part of it. "What is?" she breathed.

"Our last dance."

_My last chance... _her heart whispered mournfully, moving restlessly in her chest. If only she could… But she shouldn't. It would be cruel, and unkind. To both of them. To everyone.

"Oh… yeah." She nodded, inhaling an uneven breath.

"If only…" His focus drifted away from her face, out across the darkened banquet hall. "If only we had..." he swallowed, bowing his head. Their foreheads brushed; the sweep of her chignon catching against his dark curls.

The music crested from down the hall in the next room.

Silence lapsed.

Raine felt her heart ache, agonized.

"What are we doing?"

"I cannot say." His eyelashes fluttered, and he sighed. His fingers closed over hers, a gentle pressure of them around her palm. "I do not understand how I let you go," he breathed, hardly audible.

"It happens." She felt helpless, swept up in things that had been, the way they'd been. Before. And could not go back to.

"Does it?" he hummed, a forlorn note, and drew her closer.

"Yes." She stared at the floor swirling beneath their shoes, the skirts of her evening gown pressing against his trousers. "If only..."

"If only you were mine," he sighed, lamenting, looking at her.

No, no, not that. She counted the flecks of gold in his eyes, tracing the ring of darker green around his irises. They couldn't go back to the way things were. "I know," she murmured instead, feeling her heart sink.

"How did I let you go?" He repeated, and his hand touched her face, cupping her cheek. For a moment, Raine thought she would lean into it. Instead, she pulled herself back.

"We… we had our chance. It's over." She exhaled, drawing herself up together again. She flashed him a smile, brighter than she felt, happier than she was right now. Happy as she'd be again after this ordeal was over. "This is the end of us—or what was us. You know it, even if it's… hard."

He smiled, and it echoed hers, only, cunning twisted at the edges of it as well. "What a shame." he touched a styled curl beside her ear, wrapping it around his fingertip. She inhaled, watching his face. _Oh, if only…_ Her heart constricted. "You will always be the one that got away." He pulled back from her.

"So will you." She laughed softly, and it ached in her lungs.

"Yes." He chuckled, amused. His expression softened again. "If only I had met you in another place and time… if only I had not done—"

"You mustn't say that, don't hurt yourself by thinking it. You mustn't." She reached out, clasping his hand in hers, pulling it above her heart.

"We have had our last chance, then, I suppose." A rueful note tinged his voice. He pressed his forehead back to hers, his hand cradling her face once again. She wanted to laugh, and she wanted to cry, hearing him speak the sentiment she had thought only minutes ago.

"We did." Reminiscent affection colored her tone. She gazed across the darkened room, her thoughts drifting as they swayed together. Then she looked at him. "Find me… in another time." She breathed it, afraid to give it full voice, thinking on everything that had happened in the past six years. Multiple universes. A thousand variant timelines. A hundred versions of themselves, some in worlds together. Some alone without. She wondered, how many of them ended something like this?

Loki's eyes searched her features, a desperation rising in them. "_Elska_, I—"

"Raine? Are you in here?"

They moved apart, and Raine slid her hand out of his grasp as she turned toward the doors.

A man's figure stood silhouetted inside the threshold, his shadow streaking away across the floor.

"Yes, I'm in here, Lio! I was just talking to an old friend." She looked back. Loki stood in the darkness, watching her. "Goodbye."

Raine collected her gown and moved through the ocean of tables, sidestepping dropped napkins and piles of confetti streamers.

"Farewell, _Elska,_" he whispered.

Loki stood watching her as she came to Lio's side, beaming at him happily. She slipped her arm through his, and he patted her hand lovingly. She placed her other over it, and they were gone, the echo of their footsteps caught up in the thrum of the disco music down the hall.

.

.

_And it's such a shame__  
__You'll always be the one who got away__  
__We both know that deep down you feel the same__  
__Hard to say it's over__  
__But I'm already someone else's__._

* * *

_**A/N: I toyed with this for HOURS, and couldn't get what I envisioned in my head to play out correctly on the page. This is as close as I could get. **_

_**~ Windy**_


End file.
